
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 








































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FEBRUARY, 1886 . 


Issued Quarterly, 


Copyrighted 1886 . Entered at New York Post Office as second-class matter by 

THE COSMOPOLITAN COMPANY, L’t’d, 44 Broadway, New York. 







































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UNCLE BEN'S CABIN. 

BY EOB ROY. V 


[Note by the Author. — While the guest of an Alabama planter I 
met most of the characters who appear in my story. One winter evening 
in company with the “ Swanson ” household, 1 called on Uncle Ben 
and Aunt Judy, and had from their lips much that enters into the 
colloquy. A remembrance of some of the pranks accredited to the 
boys in the first chapter, was responsible for another emotion than 
merriment when, a short time since, a letter informed me that a dusky 
hand v r liich had been fatherly in its kindness to me in the by gone 
time had “ laid down the shovel and the hoe.” Of all the memories 
of my boyhood, there are few so tender as those of old colored friends, 
whose devotion was only second to that of mother and father. It is 
to the memory of these that I inscribe the story.] 


CHAPTER I. 

OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 

“ Nobody knows de trubbul I see, 

Nobody knows but de Lord an’ me.” 

The singer was seated on a cobbler’s bench just without 
the door of a rickety log cabin at "the roadside. A crop 
of kinky, gray hair covered the head and lower face of 
the old black man. A tanglework of vines, fruited with 
crooked-neck gourds, thatched the front of the one-room 
house. An oak in full foliage, though browned by Septem- 


4 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


ber suns, shaded the dusky artisan, who was sturdily pegging 
a half sole on to a leviathan brogan, the while twanging in 
strong nasal accents the refrain : 

“ Nobody knows de trubbul I see, 

Nobody knows but de Lord an’ me.” 

He looked up in wording the second line, to find three 
riders clearing the copse of wood which bounded the east- 
ern vision from his cabin, at a distance of two or three rods. 
He discovered, too, that the eyes of the horsemen were bent 
on him, that they drew rein before his door and even ad- 
dressed him: 

“ Hallo! Uncle; will we reach Judge Swanson’s by this 
road ? ” asked one of our party. 

“Yes, sahl massa; yon’s de place — de big white house 
whar de roads crosses.” 

“ Is the Judge at home ? ” 

“ Yes, sah ! him an’ Squire Cody, as possesses de taxes ov’ 
de county, druv by here from de Lockhart place lessen a 
hour ago,” answered the cobbler, adjusting his spectacles, 
from which a glass was missing, for a better observation of 
the travelers. 

“ The Lockhart place !” uttered our spokesman in a solilo- 
quizing way. “ Let me think; did not John, Will and George 
Lockhart once live here ? ” 

“ Hey did dat ! Lor’, boss, does you know dem boys ? ” 

“ We have seen them, and very bad boys they were too.” 

“ Not bad, boss,” exclaimed the old man, “ not bad — j’es 
mischievous wuz all ; w’y I raised ’em — so I did.” 

“ Is that so ? Well, now it occurs to me I have heard them 
mention an old colored friend ; tut, tut, what was his name ! ” 

“ Mout it a been Uncle Ben ? ” questioned the now interest- 
ed old man. 

“ Sure enough ! it was Uncle Ben !” 


UNCLE BEN'S CABIN 


5 


“ Hi ! Hi ! dis is dat bery ole niggah his self, massa ?” cack- 
led the old fellow, as tossing his work aside he rose to his 
feet. 

“ Can this be true ? and so you are the Uncle Ben we’ve 
heard those boys tell of. Well, they were a wild set; I saw 
one of them in a jail not long since,” said our spokesman. 

The old man dropped upon his bench again with a woe- 
begone face. 

“ Boss, you don’ tell me one of my young massas wuz in a 
jail house !” he ejaculated ; “ which un em wuz it ?” 

“ It was George,— but this man should have told you he 
was only there to see a prisoner and not made to go,” I blurt- 
ed out upon observing the old man’s distress. 

“Bress de Lord,” he exclaimed fervently, and after a sigh 
of relief, added, “ I knows my George neber stole nuffin nor 
kilt nobody.” 

“ But did not the boys torment you wickedly when they 
were growing up ?” our spokesman resumed. “ How about 
the time Georges made you jump over a bench in church ?” 

This question threw Uncle Ben into a mirthful fit in which 
he rolled his head from side to side, slapped both hands 
upon his patched knees and laughed immoderately. 

“ Did dat boy tell ’bout dem doin’s ? Well, he was owdash- 
us dat day, shore enough, and when ole missus heerd about 
it (but I didn’t told’er) she jest lathered ’im wid a hick’ry. 
You see it was de big kwarterly meetin’ which de Sunday 
atter dinner sarvice wuz fur de darkies, an’ brer Sandy Kin- 
dall, he preecht. Ole missus sent de boys to church wid me 
and told ’em to set close by me so I mout make ’em behave 
deysels. Dey wuz on de bench afore me and laft so much 
dat I lent over and told ’em I bound to tell der gran’ma. 
Dreckly brer Sandy sez: ‘Lets pray,’ and den he sez, sezee: 
‘ Brer Ben you lead us in praar ! ’ I turns round an’ kneels 
down, wich put de boys behins’t me and atter a while when 


6 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


I wuz sorter het up and prayin’ pow’ful loud, dat George, 
he reecht under de bench and stuck a pin about a inch into 
me. I reckons de folks all think’t de debil had snatcht at 
me, fur I give a whoop an’ jumpt clean over de bench , spang 
onto de back ov brer Henry Oneil.” 

Uncle Ben little dreamed when listening to the boisterous 
laughter which greeted his narrative how familiar his three 
hearers were with the church incident, or how vividly one of 
them could recall the “ lathering ” referred to. 

“ But that was not the only annoyance you suffered from 
those boys ?” was asked when the merriment had subsided. 

“ Well, it wasn’t; dey used to play ghost an’ most skeer de 
life out’en my old ooman, dar,” pointing to a smiling old 
negress who had come to the door during the conversation. 
“ Dey hinged rocks down de chimbly, hided my axe, tooked 
off my gate and hanged it up in a tree, stealed fish off my 
hook I sot in de creek, an’ fasten on a black snake instid’st; 
den jes as John shot his gun George hit mein de back 
wid a little rock, an’ make me think a bullet hit me. An’ 
when I holler an’ fell down an’ pray, skeered I wuz killed, 
dem boys jes whoop, and most die a laffin — dats de way dey 
used for to do.” 

This account had proceeded amidst outbursts of laughter, 
as we exchanged glances around at each prank recited. 

“ You aint told,” put in the old woman “‘bout how dey 
tied your ambriller to de calf’s tail an den how dey open it 
wide an turned de calf loose, right dar in de big road, whilst 
dey felled against de fence and telled you de calf done 
stealed your ambriller.” 

This recollection set the old couple chuckling, while their 
auditors, almost convulsed, simultaneously looked toward a 
panel of the fence inclosing a cotton field just across the road. 

“I am sure you must dislike those mean boys, and have 
no wish to ever see them again,” was said by one of us. 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


7 


“ Me not like dem boys, massa ? you’s wrong dar. W’y 
de Lord bress ’um — I’d walk twenty miles, ole as I is, an’ 
Judy would too, jes’ to see ary one ov ’em. Dey wusn’t mean, 
boss — jes mischievous like. Atter dey wuz dun debblin us 
dey would fetch me terbacker, an’ de ole ooman a dress or a 
head hankercher, an’ give me der hats an’ close what dey wuz 
tired uv; an’ I boun’ if dey lived here now, de ole niggahs 
wudn’t neber be cole nor hungry nuther. I sez to Judy 
tother day, * Judy,’ sez I, ‘if we jes knowed how to write a let- 
ter to Mars John or Mars George or Mars Will, I boun’ dey 
would sen’ us suthin;’ I sed dat, an’ I knows dey would too.” 

“ But may they not have lost interest in you ? It must have 
been a long time since they moved from here” — thus our 
spokesman. 

“ Bats so, boss — its nigh on to seventeen year sens dat time. 
Maybe Uncle Ben and Aunt Judy done pass outen der 
minds. We’s nuffin but two ole niggahs w’at wuz cotton head- 
ed ’fore freedom corned. But we worked right on fur ole mis- 
sus a year atter de war wuz ended, ’till she died an de boys 
wuz moved away to de Norf to school. Well, massas, if dey’s 
furgitted de ole niggahs de ole niggahs aint furgitted dem. 
It seems like no more’n yesterday sens I used to plait whips 
fur ’em an’ make ’em slings an’ bird traps, an’ tell ’em ole time 
tales ’bout de compersations ov possums, rabbits an’ udder 
beeses in de times when animals used to talk. Many’s de ash 
cake de ole ooman cooked fur ’em when dey wuz hungry 
’tween meals. We nussed dem boys an’ we nussed der pa 
afore ’em. He got kilt in de war when J ohn wasn’t but four- 
teen year old. We aint neber had no more good time sens 
Mars William wuz dead.” 

“ Have you not been better off since free than when in 
slavery?” 

“ Dat we aint ! We done got too ole, boss, when freedom' 
corned. It do good, maybe, to young niggahs wat some 


8 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


a’count in de fields an’ cliilduns w’at can go to school an’ git 
edicated like white folks; but me an’ Judy wuz done wored 
out so nobody want our stiff ole bones round wid der achin 
an’ rheumatiz ; freedom aint helped no ole niggahs.” 

“Do you own the cabin, Uncle Ben?” was asked. 

“ Lor’, boss ! no sah, — how I gwine own it ? I aint got 
nuffin ’sides de tools I mend shoes wid, but dem yonder 
chickens an’ dat yaller dog. De place is Judge Swanson’s 
and I aint pay him no rent in so long I look all de time fur 
him to tell us to git out; den I reckuns we freezes to death, 
onless de good Lord takes care ov us.” 

The old couple were evidently living in fear of being turned 
out of the hut, half tumbled down, which they had occupied 
for probably forty years; though what with rents in the roof 
and gaps between the logs they might have been domiciled 
beneath the branches of a forest oak with seeming equal 
comfort. The little garden at the side of the hut and the 
gourd vines running up at its walls looked as when we last 
saw the place, sixteen years before, only that the garden ap- 
peared to have contracted and the gourds to be smaller. The 
cabin had decayed and shriveled like an old shoe, long out 
in sun and rain, and but for numerous props would long 
since have tumbled to the ground. Such was the abode of 
these kind old friends of our boyhood, and the most faithful 
servants of our father’s mother, who after the loss of our own 
mother had taken her place, and with whom we three 
brothers had continued to live after the death of our father, 
until she also was laid to rest. 

“ We know where the Lockhart boys are, Uncle Ben ; tell 
me what to say and I’ll write a letter to them for you.” 

“ Thankee sir, boss !” 

George drew a memorandum from his pocket, turned side- 
ways in the saddle, making a book rest of a knee. “ Go on 
now,” he said. 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


9 


“Yes sah; tell ’em all howdye fur me.” 

“ That’s good; and I have it down; go on.” 

“ Tell ’em me and Judy is well and doin’ well.” 

“ Oh, you are, are you ? But that isn’t what you’ve been 
telling us.” 

“No, boss, but I thought dat wuz de way folks starts let- 
ters.” 

“Sure enough, I forgot that; well, go on.” 

“ De white man w’ats writ’en dis, say maybe you all furgit 
us. Us is Uncle Ben an’ Aunt Judy, w’at used to nuss you, 
an’ de same w’at kotched possums an’ made simmon beer 
fur you, an’ wich George and Will stayed in de woods wid, 
when de Yankee sojers rid fru de country. We done growed 
mighty ole, an’ sen’s our respecks an’ hopes you is well. If 
you’se married, we hopes your families is well, too. If you’se 
got some old close w’at you don’t want, de same is mighty 
needin’, an’ we aint got no home. Mos’ all de ole ’quaint- 
ances done gone somewhar an’ left us, an’ old Nero, de bes’ 
’possum dog, done dead, an’ I got ’nuther yaller dog named 
‘Seez.’ We hopes you’se happy an’ livin’ fur deLord. Dat’s 
all, Massa.” 

“All right, the boys shall have the letter,” said George, re- 
turning the note book to his pocket. 

“ Do you think,” he continued, “ that you would know 
them should you see them ?” 

“ Lor’ bress you, massa, I know ’em time I sot eyes on ’em. 
I got picturs ov all three, w’at dey guv us ’fore dey moved 
away.” 

“ Please let us look at them ?” 

The old aunty turned into the cabin and presently hobbled 
to the door again with three old fashioned ambrotype cases. 

“Dat one wid de uniform on,” explained the old man, “is 
Mars John; he fit in de Alabamy Melishy, jes one month ’fore 
de war ended. Dis here is Mars George wat look so inner- 


10 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


cent like he neber play no trick on de ole niggalisinhislife; 
and dis is Mars Will de younges’ wid his pinter dog Dot 
twix his knees. Yes, sah, boss, I’d know dem boys if I met 
’em in Californy,” he affirmed stoutly. 

Evidently we were held in the old man’s memory as we ap- 
peared when those likenesses were made. His imagination 
had never dwelt on the inevitable changes in stature and face 
the years between youth and settled manhood bring to each 
of us. Since the pictures had grown no larger, nor changed 
in features nor expression, neither had it occurred to his mind 
that their originals might appear so different now, that even 
the eye of motherly affection would fail to recognize in either 
a son. And there are heart pictures preserved by every one 
which would be the dearer to us if, like this single old man, 
we could contemplate no alteration in the prototype; if we 
might be assured even, that the original had died before 
clouding the canvas with reflection of bearded sin. 

The sight of these old pictures accompanied by Uncle 
Ben’s explanation added to the enjoyment of our call at liis 
gate. They were a surprise, since, even if we had remembered 
them, we would have supposed them long since lost or de- 
stroyed, as every other one made in our boyhood had been. 
After they had changed hands and been remarked upon and 
laughed at, George proposed that Uncle Ben should let us 
have them, but to that the old man would not agree. 

“ We will pay you for them,” said George, “a dollar a piece.” 

“No, sah, boss. I not sell dem picturs,” he replied. 

“ Well, say five dollars each — fifteen dollars for the three,” 
and a small roll of money was opened before the old man’s 
eyes. He looked at the tempting bank notes for an instant, 
and then turned his glances on the old woman. 

“ Fetch dem picturs back heer, Ben; you don’t gwine to sell 
’em fur no money,” Aunt Judy commanded. 

“ Dat’s wat I sez too, boss,” and he extended his hands for 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


II 


the pictures. “ We’se looked at ’em, an’ talked ’bout our boys 
ebry day dese sixteen years, an’ can’t give ’em up now; no 
sail — hand ’em back.” 

No wonder that George’s eyes were moist as he returned 
the cases to the old man’s hands. Who could fail of emotion 
over manifestations of such tender remembrance — such dis- 
interested affection. For my own part, I felt like tumbling 
from my horse, seizing Uncle Ben by the hand and confess- 
ing who we were. I think George observed my impulse, for 
he reined his horse in front of mine, repeated his promise that 
the boys should receive Uncle Ben’s letter, and proposed that 
we ride on. 


CHAPTER II. 

INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY. 

To such as have not already traced, between the lines, our 
design in not making ourselves known to our old colored 
friends, a brief explanation is in place. This with a word or two 
of self-introduction and then a word or two more in a moral- 
izing strain will bring us all together in an amiable mood 
for joining in other visits to the old log cabin. 

Let me introduce my eldest brother, John Lockhart ; age 
thirty-four, occupation, merchandising; circumstances, com- 
fortable; for he is now a full partner in a wholesale house in 
which, fourteen years ago, he was an under clerk. At busi- 
ness a hard worker and on his dignity, he yet likes a romp 
now and then, and when on one is a very imp of fun. 

Reverend ! Well, if you had known George ten 

years ago, you would sympathize with the pause after writ- 
ing that title, for of all the unsanctified sons of Adam, he was 
surely first rowdy. 


12 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


A frolic and a fight were convertible terms in his vocabu- 
lary, with his rollicking spirits, utter fearlessness and remark- 
able strength. He was never a quarreler, and I think never 
struck any 1 one on his own account, but he was the leader of 
one of the two factions at college and trouble was in store 
for him of the other side, who, in any sense, hit one of his 
followers below the belt. The singular openness of his dar- 
ing and mischief must have palliated his offenses in the eyes 
of the faculty, for nothing else could have secured for him 
their forbearance. But notwithstanding his many escapades, 
entailing at times much fatigue and loss of sleep, he some- 
how managed to keep well abreast his class, and graduated 
with honors. Judge of the popular astonishment, when, six 
months after leaving college, this irrepressible joined the 
Methodist Church, and again, when a few months later he 
entered the ministry. But his profession has never quelled 
his propensity for mischief. I have seen it crop out in 
the pulpit itself; and away from the sacred desk, while a sin- 
cere Christian, he is the most unclerical of clergymen. He 
is often known to take recreation for an hour, from the work 
of preparing a sermon, by playing his violin. 

John and George are benedicks, but I have not to that 
extent admitted any rival in my devotion to that jealous 
mistress, the Law. "VYe reside in the same city, and the Wed- 
nesdays that do not witness the Lockhart brothers around 
the dinner table at the parsonage are exceedingly rare. Our 
weekly dinner party on the 6th of September, 1883, was to 
decide where we brothers should spend a three weeks’ vaca- 
tion which had been determined on. A letter I had received 
that day from a lady cousin who had been visiting in Alaba- 
ma, near our old homestead, was read aloud by John’s bet- 
ter half, to whom I had handed it. Among other items 
therein interesting to us was the following: 

“ I have made inquiry, as you suggested' concerning old 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


13 


Uncle Ben. He and Aunt Judy are still living and in the 
identical cabin as when you left them. I am told they are 
feeble and destitute, but faithful in affectionate recollection 
of £ our boys/ as they still call you, John and George.” 

“Poor old friends,” said John in a compassionate way. “I 
propose that we send them ” 

“ Hold, John ! ” George interrupted with an impulsive 
gesture: “ that letter nominates our sporting ground. We 
will go to Alabama and give Uncle Ben and Aunt Judy a 
surprise party; what say you?” 

“ Capital, capital !” was John’s response, which was echoed 
by me, and approved by the two wives of the conference. 

The following Saturday we were speeding southward, and 
on Tuesday, at noon, stopped at Eufaula, Ala., where, leaving 
our trunks, we hired saddle horses and rode twenty miles 
westward, where, late in the afternoon, we came upon the 
old cabin With its little garden, its gourd vines and the hum- 
ble old couple occupying it. 

Of our former white neighbors we had ascertained that 
Judge Kobert Swanson was the only one still residing in the 
vicinity, so to his home we were heading via Uncle Ben’s. 
Half the time of our ride we were discussing what to do for 
the old darkies, and the manner of doing it, but finally rest- 
ed all plans upon circumstances after our arrival, and only 
adopted two resolves: one, that we would not immediately 
disclose our identity to them (we were sure they could not 
recognize us,) and the other, that George should do the talk- 
ing on our meeting the old servants. 

Leaving Uncle Ben we rode on to Judge Swanson’s with 
feelings — as the reader must appreciate after the conversation 
recited — of gratitude for the faithful remembrance and affec- 
tion in which we found we were held, as was touchingly 
illustrated in the refusal, even for money, to part with the 


H 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


old pictures o± the boyish faces by which they fancied they 
might recognize us, even now. 

I know of no affection entirely similar to that between the 
old servant of the Slave Era, and the children of the former 
master; I know of no attachment more disinterested or more 
genuinely reciprocal. Scarcely less than the pride our par- 
ents felt in the persons of their children, was that of the 
good natured colored dependants. In their eyes, no other 
youngsters nvere half so smart, so comely, or so well bred. 
In turn, next to the approval of father and mother, the 
praises of black “ aunts ” and “ uncles ” were the proudest 
encomiums we could receive. 

The first pair of boots I ever wore are red of tops in my 
memory yet, chiefly from the congratulations of dusky aunts 
and uncles upon this attainment in the direction of manhood. 
Did I catch a splinter in a finger or stump a toe, or in fall- 
ing jam my nose, or get stung by busy bee or nimble wasp — 
who more sympathetic or prompt with soothing appliances 
than an Aunt Judy ? Did I lose ball or whip, an Uncle Ben 
was ready with knife and leather thongs to replace it. I re- 
member once, when having stolen off against a positive 
interdiction of a boyish enjoyment — a swim in a treacherous 
pond — an Uncle Ben was sent in quest of me, with remarks 
indicating that when I returned, I would meet a flogging. I re- 
member how, when we were moving homeward through the 
woods, he considerately removed my jacket and introduced 
under it a padding of green leaves, over which the switch 
fell with less hurt than the chastiser supposed; and how, an 
hour later, my sable Samaritan took out the padding, the 
while we laughed in both sleeves of the jacket at the way we 
“got ahead of ole missus.” I remember too, when practic- 
ing for my first declamation at the country school, leading 
an Uncle Ben about sundown quite a distance into the woods, 


UNCLE BEN'S CABIN. 


15 

when, after he had assisted me on to a stump, I belabored 
the circumambient air with: 

“ You’d scarce expect one of my age, 

To speak in public on the stage,” 

And how my one auditor applauded and made me, all will- 
ingly, and indeed proudly, repeat the oration at least three 
times, when he declared that u a little more an’ I would beat 
Mr. Pool (the village parson) a preachin’ ; ” with which trib- 
ute to my declamatory prowess I walked home at his side, 
much more self-confident than when on the following after- 
noon I broke down before thirty girls on the third line of 
the same recitation. 

The event nations of the emancipation of slavery sepa- 
rated thousands of other youths from old servants just as 
occurred to us, but there is not one such, wherever met, who 
will fail to appreciate the desire which had long possessed us 
for meeting Uncle Ben and Aunt Judy, or the pleasure we real- 
ized from now having it in our power to, in a substantial 
way, reward their devotion to our memory during so long a 
separation. But our designs in that direction being of 
George’s suggestion, we must needs defer to him in their 
execution. And now when we have only left the old darkies 
and when George’s eyes are yet moist from that — to us — 
touching interview, his lurking penchant for mischief is in 
the ascendant and he breaks out : 

“ Thinks he would recognize us, does he ? Well, he shall 
at least have some strong reminders of us as we were when 
those caricatures were made.” 

“ What do you mean to do? ” John inquired in an expos- 
tulating tone. 

“ Mean to do ? I’m going to have some of the old time 
sport. I tell you, boys, I have never had so merry an hour 
as that when I tied the umbrella to the old man’s calf.” 


1 6 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


“ Yon are not going to torment those good old creatures ? ” 
I said stoutly ; “ at least you’ll have no aid from me in so 
doing.” 

“ Yes I will, too,” he retorted ; “ we’ll make it up to them 
afterward and leave them the happier for it all. I’ll join 
you in any contribution for their comfort as long as they 
live, but, bless their old souls, their boys shall have one 
more season of fun at their innocent expense before they go 
to join the angels.” 

I fear my ministerial brother will never typically wear 
the cloth, and the reader will share my apprehension after 
further reading of my narrative. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SOUTHERN HOUSEMAID AND BELLE. 

Contemporaneous with the political revolution in South- 
ern State affairs precipitated by the emancipation and 
enfranchisement of the slaves, came disorder into the 
kitchen of the Southern home. Hannah the cook and Jule 
the house girl, upon receipt of the news of their freedom, 
were “ taken with a leaving,” and their successors to this 
day have seldom been satisfactory servants. The evil of 
slavery was to none more apparent than to the matron with 
two or three belles-of-society daughters who having had maids 
for every service, found them, like herself, in 1865 unprac- 
ticed in and averting from the performance of domestic 
work. 

That the education of Southern girls had been mis- 
directed, incomplete and devoid of practical character was 
one of the revelations of the abolition of slavery. Recog- 
nizing this fact all the more plainly after years of residence 
North, where girls are, as a rule, reared for something more 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


17 


than mere ornaments, we were curious to note what change, 
if any, had come into the training of Southern girls. 

Our welcome at Judge Swanson’s was as cordial as ab- 
sentees for so long a time from childhood’s scenes and asso- 
ciations could have desired. We readily recognized him 
and his good lady, though our faces did not recall us to 
them. But there were two members of his family whom I 
would not have known. What was there in the recollection 
of Willie and Daisy, two chubby baby girls of three and five, 
sixteen years ago, to suggest the superb young women who, 
soon after we were seated on the colonnade, with sundown 
hats swinging from their arms, walked leisurely up the 
shaded lane ? Before they had entered the gate I had men- 
tally remarked upon the graceful arrangement of their wav- 
ing brown hair. I fully appreciate how incredible the state- 
ment will appear (I almost feel the need of appending the 
affidavits of every one present, to assure its credence), but it is 
nevertheless true that here were two young ladies, otherwise 
comme il faut, with foreheads. I would even go further and 
aver that not only did they not wear bangs, but no shop 
hair whatever, but such an averment might, in the reader’s 
mind, throw discredit on other statements in my story. Be- 
fore they had reached the steps I pronounced them witeh- 
ingly handsome. But who could they be ? Our host solved 
the question, introducing them as his daughters. Misses 
Daisy and Willie. While John and George were shaking 
their little hands almost off (its astonishing how presump- 
tuous married men are on such occasions), I was recalling 
the pink little toes, bare ankles and lisping talk of two little 
children as I had last seen them ; how fond both were of 
candy ; the headless doll little Willie carried in her arms and 
the crop-eared kitten Daisy caressed. But now I am shaking 
a hand of each, and looking first one and then the other in 
the face and fancying that I must have admired these 


i8 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


chubby children aforesaid more than I had heretofore real- 
ized. And if I had never so appreciated their positions 
previously, I now thought the aforementioned pets to have 
been blessed, and half wished, provided their owners’ tastes 
had undergone no change, that I were now either the head- 
less doll or the crop-eared kitten — or both at the same time. 
When, after they had left us perhaps an hour (though the 
time appeared several hours to me) we were called in to 
supper, another remarkable phenomenon greeted my eyes. 
In a Southern home, in a thoroughly genteel family of com- 
fortable income, here was a daughter, a college graduate, in 
a jaunty apron and with tray in hand, waiting on the table. 
I expected an explanation to the effect that the house girl 
had run away that afternoon or the cook gone off without 
giving notice ; but the only apology I received was in the 
form of a smile from the fair serving maid which said, if 
ever smile said anything, “ No, this is nothing unusual — I 
am accustomed to it — it is one of my accomplishments ; ” 
and the look I gave in return was intended to say, “It is a 
charming accomplishment — it becomes you — and from this 
moment, my one aspiration in life is to become the suc- 
cessor to the headless doll.” 

After supper I was more interested in the sounds from 
the dining room of clinking dishes than in the conversation 
between the Judge, John and George ; unless I except that 
part of it in which our host mentioned that his wife and 
daughters had refused since the return of the girls from 
school to allow him to employ a cook or house girl, prefer- 
ing to do the domestic work with their own hands, which 
they did, from the cooking to the making of their silk 
dresses. But at length I was in the parlor, and as a becom- 
ing courtesy, asked the ladies for music, though self-assured 
— with impressions of Kellogg and Cary and Nilsson and 
Patti, and the first violin and piano virtuosos — that now, at 


UNCLE BEN'S CABIN. 


19 


least, I should be bored. I think they anticipated my esti- 
mate of them in the musical art (or, worse still, may have 
measured my taste as I had their attainments), and sang 
two or three melodies. But now as I am recalling to Willie 
some ballad I once loved well, but had not heard since leaving 
the old home, Daisy has given her fingers to Strauss, and 
the Viennese composer would have thrilled at their soulful 
touch. Without a pause of regret at leaving the waltz, her 
hands are transferred to Hungarian Liszt for a galop, spir- 
ited of composition and transporting in execution, out of 
which she gambols into an elfish roulade and thence glides 
into one of Haydn’s adagios, lulling the excitation her spir- 
ituosos had aroused. Again they revert to song ; and solos 
and duets from II Trovatore, Martha and Pinafore, The 
Chimes, La Mascot and the Pirates are given with more 
than professional grace and with all the excellence of culti- 
vated art. What with their fine foreheads, home-grown 
tresses, conversational charms, domestic virtues, musical 
accomplishments and personal completeness, I was su- 
premely indifferent to the plottings going on behind cigars 
in the sitting-room against Uncle Ben. I was in love, and 
but for one annoyance would have been temporarily happy 
— but the latter was impossible while the question of crop- 
eared kitten cfr headless doll was confounding me. 

Had either of the sisters gone from the parlor for thirty 
minutes I should have proposed to the remaining one. I 
wished one or the other would go to the sitting-room, but 
could not have named which I should have preferred re- 
main. Such was my dilemma when, the evening waned, we 
were summoned to the sitting-room, where, at Mrs. Swan- 
son’s request, Daisy went to the organ and sang “Home 
Again,” in which all voices were joined. The song ended, 
George thanked Heaven in such a prayer as must have 


20 UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 

stirred every heart with emotion, for our being so privi- 
leged — 

“ To meet our friends once more.” 

Afterward I spent a half-hour in George’s room, listening 
to the plans arranged for first tantalizing and then benefit- 
ing the old servants. 


CHAPTEK IV. 

“ DABS A HEAP OF TRUBBLE ON DE OLE MAN’S MIND.” 

Judge Swanson entered heartily into our conspiracy. The 
absence of servants from the house rendered us safe from 
recognition in the community, the ladies being enjoined 
from mentioning our names to any one. The succeeding 
day, Thursday, was spent in revisiting the old homestead 
and in hunting over the fields and woods familiar to our 
feet in bygone times. 

On returning to the house at evening. Judge Swanson 
introduced to our service a small black harlequin, looking 
shrewdly and stepping nimbly, under the name of “ Mart,” 
whom we secured as our “Artful Dodger” by payment 
down of a small fee, which was to be liberally supplemented 
on the condition of expert operations. 

About nine o’clock Mart returned from his first expedition 
with Uncle Ben’s yellow dog in tow, to which an out-house 
was assigned with ample provisions for contenting him with 
his prison estate, thus preventing howling announcements 
of his whereabouts. An hour later Mart evidenced deftness 
in the art of robbing hens’ roosts without awaking the sleep- 
ing owners — a feat which the average Southern darkey is 
reputed to excel in. Mart’s modus operandi was unique. He 
insinuated a slender pole beneath the sleeping fowl, which 


UNCLE BEN’S . CABIN. 


21 


at once shifted its footing on to the stealing stick, and thus 
was unsuspectingly transferred to a small coop, the door of 
which was opened and closed by the Rev. George Lockhart. 
One by one Aunt Judy’s feathered treasures, nine in num- 
ber, were abducted and conveyed to a lock-up in Judge 
Swanson’s yard, while she and Uncle Ben were sleeping. 
Our host, being a magistrate of the district* anticipated an 
early call from the old man the •following morning. We 
walked out upon the colonnade, where the Judge was stand- 
ing as Uncle Ben reached the gate. 

“Well, Uncle Ben,” the Judge addressed him, “what 
brings you up so early — come to pay some rent?” 

“Eh, Lordy, Judge — I’se in a heap er truble dis mornin’; 
somebody done stole my dog an’ all my chickens,” he an- 
swered dejectedly. 

“ Indeed ! that is too bad ; what time in the night were 
they stolen?” 

“ I dunno, sah ; dey was all dar when I went ter sleep an’ 
all goned when I woked up ; I’se minted now, Judge.” 

“ Do you suspect any one ? ” 

“No, sah, I don’t expect nobody.” 

“ How much were they worth, Uncle Ben ? ” George ques- 
tioned. 

“ I been offered sebenty-five cents for my dog, an’ de 
chickens wuz wuth twenty cents apiece anywhar.” 

“ What do you propose doing about it ? ” George asked. 

“I corned fur to ax de Judge to ketch de rogue an’ git 
back my dog an’ chickens.” 

“Do you think Judge Swanson knows who stole them ? ” 

“ No, sah, but I think he mout offer a ’ward ter folks what 
would ketch ’em.” 

By the owner’s valuation the missing property was worth 
two dollars and fifty-five cents. 

The magistrate promised to take the affair in hand, but 


22 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


cautioned the old man against mentioning the theft to any 
person. “ You and your wife keep mum/’ he advised, “ and 
we may overtake the rogue.” 

“ Thus reassured, he lifted his hat, bade us a cheerful 
“ good mornin’, bosses,” and was walking off when the Judge 
called him : 

“ Uncle Ben, I must have some rent money — cannot wait 
longer on you — you must pay me at least twelve or fifteen 
dollars in a day or two.” 

The old man’s countenance fell. 

“ Have you not something you can sell to raise that much 
for me ? ” added the Judge. 

“ He has pictures of the three Lockhart boys, for which 
we offered him fifteen dollars,” said George. 

“ Boss, I wish you hadn’t tole dat. De Judge ’ll say I’se 
mighty mean not ter took dat money an’ pay it to him. But 
I can’t sell dem picturs.” 

“ Perhaps he will change his mind and sell them, so I 
would wait on him a day or two longer,” George addressed 
Judge Swanson. 

“ Maybe I has to do it — maybe I has to — but, Judge, 
Judy’ll have de haystacks (hysterics) whensoever dem pic- 
turs is gwine away,” said the old man as he departed. 

In the afternoon we walked down to the cabin, George 
carrying a boot, on which he directed a repair made, to be 
ready by morning. Aunt Judy was disconsolate over the 
loss of her hens, which (the blessings brightening with their 
flight) she declared the best layers in the settlement. 
Shortly after nightfall Mart repaired to the old couple to 
inform them that on the previous night he had seen a man in 
the road leading their dog and carrying a coop of chickens. 

“Why didn’t you stop him?” demanded Uncle Ben. 

“Didn’t you sell ’em?” queried Mart. 

“ No ; dey was stoled! Leastwise,” he added, mindful of 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


23 

the Judge’s injunction of reticence, “leastwise the man 
didn’t pay fur ’em.” 

“ What was the man’s name? ” Mart asked. 

“He neber told me.” 

“ What did you ask him for the dog and chickens ? ” 

“ He took ’em away afore I telled ’im de price.” 

“What time was he here?” 

“ I reckon about midnight.” 

“Well, I saw them gwine off ’fore ten o’clock ; now, was 
the man what took ’em away white or black ? ” 

In seeking to cover his slip in admitting the theft by pre- 
tending a sale, Uncle Ben had fallen a victim to Mart’s 
shrewd questioning. But he evaded further entangling ex- 
amination by a manner of speech common to elderly darkies 
when addressing the younger of their race. 

“Look a here, Mart,” he said, “you stop gwine about 
axin’ folks questions whar you’se got no business to. If you 
seed de man wid my dog an’ yer Aunt Judy’s hens, you 
knows as well as me whedder he was white or black, so no 
need to ax me ’ bout dat. When I wuz your age I had more 
manners dan to be axin’ ole folks ’bout der business. You 
young niggahs, since freedom corned, done got too uppity — 
so you is.” 

But Mart was profiting too much by the confusion into 
which he had thrown the moralist to take offense at his re- 
buke. Seated on the cobbler’s bench, which was against 
a wall, he had removed every tool, with the boot Uncle Ben 
had mended, opposite an opening between two logs with 
only a board covering it from the outside. Mart was 
affected, besides, with a pious turn of mind on this evening, 
and volunteering a flattering remark upon Uncle Ben’s elo- 
quence at prayer, offered to remain until that nightly exer- 
cise of the cabin was over. This mollified the old man, 


24 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


who, as Mart shifted his sitting from the bench to a stool 
beneath a corner shelf, began singing his favorite hymn : 

“ De storms may howl an’ de win’s may blow, 

Trubbul all aroun’. 

Dey cannot drove me frum de shore, 

Trubbul all aroun’. 

“ De debil may stole my silver an’ gole, 

Trubbul all aroun’. 

But he can’t steal de ’ligion outen my soul, 

Trubbul all aroun’. 

“ Ole Satan he’s a-sneakin’ about in de night, 

Trubbul all aroun’. 

You’d oetter keep de door of yer heart shut tight, 
Trubbul all aroun’.” 

The song ended, Uncle Ben’s eyes were closed in his zeal 
of prayer, and Aunt Judy’s face buried in the chair, when 
Mart stealthily rose, standing, and raising the lid of an old 
cigar box on the shelf, took therefrom the three pictures, 
and having pocketed them resumed a kneeling posture, 
which he was careful to retain until Uncle Ben had turned 
after his amen and observed him. When the old people 
were supposed to be asleep, Mart returned to the cabin, 
displaced the board covering the crevice at the bench and, 
inserting a hand through the opening, abstracted the boot, 
and then, one by one, all the tools. As Mart finished re- 
adjusting the board Aunt Judy was heard to call out, “ Ben, 
’pears to me I heard a rat gnawin’ sunthin’.” 

“What’s here for a rat to gnaw? Go to sleep,” he an- 
swered her. 


UNCLE BEN'S CABIN. 


2 5 


CHAPTER Y. 

UNCLE BEN TURNS PUGILIST. 

Trilling and twittering and tweedling ; purling and chir- 
ruping ; caroling and quavering ; whistling and piping and 
shaking and warbling — tunefully, gladfully, gleefully, a dozen 
mocking-birds were singing a morning serenade to us as the 
Judge’s younger daughter and I, her sister and J ohn, George 
and their father walked by couples, just as the sun was ris- 
ing, down the road at the side of which was the cabin. 
“ Sweet the song of birds,” wrote Byron, but I doubt if the 
impassioned bard ever listened to bird song so inspiring of 
his utterance as one may hear any dewy morn in Southern 
woodland. 

Jingling several silver pieces in his hand, George greeted 
the dusky cobbler, as he appeared at his door, with a bra- 
vura “ good morning,” and then — 

“ I’ve called for my boot, Uncle Ben, and if you’ve done a 
good job shall pay you handsomely.” 

“ Massa, massa ! ” exclaimed the old man with deprecatory 
gestures, “ de debil am shorely broked loose ! Your boot 
an’ ebry one of my tools is stoled,” and tears started from 
his eyes. 

“ What ! You’ve been robbed again ? ” 

“ Yes, sah, an’ my door wuz barred fast ; nobody aint 
broke in de house nor corned down de chimbly ; but dem 
things am gone'.” 

“ That looks as if some one inside the house had moved 
them,” said George, and then turning to the Judge, asked 
in an undertone, but loud enough for Uncle Ben to hear, “ is 
this old man honest ? ” 


2 6 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


“I have always thought him honest,” was answered in 
like tone. 

“Massa — Judge — I hope you don’t b’lieve I stoled dat 
boot. Fore de Lord I dunno whar ’tis,” pleaded Uncle Ben. 

“ I haven’t heard of his being in so much trouble since 
the Lockhart boys used to annoy him,” said Judge Swan- 
son. 

“ No, sah, an’ dem boys neber guv me dis much trouble 
in all der lifes — dat dey didn’t.” 

“I must have my boot or money to buy another,” said 
George. “Sell me those pictures, Uncle Ben! You'd 
rather do that than go to jail, had you not? ” 

“Yes — Lord! ” exclaimed Aunt Judy, as she started from 
the door where she had been standing. 

“This cruelty should stop,” I whispered George ; “it is 
simply diabolical.” 

“Ben, Ben!” came from Aunt Judy, as with uplifted 
hands she hobbled into the doorway again ; “ de picturs of 
our boys is gone, too ! ” 

ihe old man dropped down upon the door-sill and sat 
with open mouth and staring eyes, the most grotesque image 
of confoundment and black despair imaginable. Despite 
the sympathy I, in common with the young ladies, had felt, 
it was not possible to repress laughter as we contemplated 
his face. But suddenly he arose as if vitalized by the energy 
of youth. 

“I know now what’s de matter,” he exclaimed; “dis 
house is ha’nted. Dese ain’t yethly goin’s on ; sperits is 
stole dat boot an’ likewise dem picturs, dem chickens an’ 
my dog. Take us to de jail-house, massa, if you wants to, 
but I don’t stay in dis one nary ’nuther night, long as I’se 
lived dar.” Saying which he stepped before us with an air 
which said : “ Lead on — I’m ready to follow, and no ques- 
tions asked.” 


UNCLE BEN'S CABIN. 


2 / 

“All right,” said Judge Swanson, “leave everything in 
the house for the rent you owe me ; shut the door, and you 
and Judy follow us.” Three minutes later we were return- 
ing toward Judge Swanson’s residence, the old couple sadly 
traipsing in the wake of our party. At the gate the Judge 
called for Mart, ordered him to take Uncle Ben and Aunt 
Judy in charge and escort them to his (Mart’s) own cabin, 
two miles back on the plantation, where he should keep 
them under guard, allowing them to hold conversation with 
no person until he should call and give permission. 

Without an unsubmissive word they went away with their 
impish guide and guard. Scarcely were they out of sight, 
by a foot-path across a cotton field, when two wagons loaded 
with lumber were driven down the road from the direction 
of a saw-mill near by, and with them a number of men with 
carpentry tools. Breakfast over, our host returned with us 
to Uncle Ben’s late home to find the old cabin razed to the 
ground and a dozen workmen, under the direction of an 
active foreman, busily sawing out and mortising framing 
timbers. 

By noon the skeleton of a two-room house was upreared, 
and the wagons had deposited material requisite for its 
completion. Followed by one of the wagons, John drove 
away after dinner for Eufaula, whence he returned about 
three o’clock the following (Saturday) afternoon, with a sub- 
stantial bedstead and ample bedding, chairs, a table and 
needful crockery, an outfit of cooking utensils and a com- 
fortable store of supplies of meat, meal, flour, sugar, coffee 
and molasses. A complete suit of clothing, including hat 
and shoes for Uncle Ben and dress-goods for Aunt Judy, 
filled a trunk. A more complete set of cobbler’s tools than 
our old friend had ever owned was supplemented by a 
small stock of leather for use in his repair work. For a 
nominal sum the Judge had executed in favor of the old 


28 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


man a lease on the half-acre of ground so long as he or his 
wife should live. Before sunset the house was in order for 
occupancy, and George held the key to the locked door. 

Mrs. Swanson and the young ladies became members of 
our surprise party and went with us after supper to the cot- 
tage, while the Judge accompanied a wagon which was to 
bring Uncle Ben and Aunt Judy home. We had a fire kin- 
dled, a lamp lighted, the three old pictures on the mantel, 
the old tools and the new and the mysteriously missing 
boot on the cobbler’s bench ; Aunt Judy’s chickens in a 
new roost and the dog tied ‘near the door before the 
wagon came, when we took up position in the other room, 
which was empty, to observe through the glass upper half 
of the door and overhear. What with the darkness, their 
dim sight and the new fence, they did not recognize the 
place where they alighted from the wagon ; the light and 
the new cottage were unfamiliar. Uncle Ben recognized his 
dog at the steps, but the Judge gave him no time to ex- 
press his surprise before urging him within, after Aunt 
Judy, when with the remark, “This is your jail, and you 
will never leave it,” he shut the door on them. 

******* 

“Didn’t he say dis wuz de jail?” queried Aunt Judy, as 
after a dazed stare about the room she turned it on Uncle 
Ben. 

‘ c Dat’s what he said, but ’ 

The livest ghost the prisoner could have conjured up as 
raiding the old cabin could never have evoked a more 
amazed countenance than the sight of his bench, his tools 
and the boot had brought to Uncle Ben. 

In the same instant Aunt Judy’s eyes had turned to the 
mantel. “ Lord liab mussy on us!” she ejaculated. 

“Dat’s ’zactly what I sez,” responded Uncle Ben, as he 
took the boot in hand. 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


2 9 


“ De jail folks stole ’em,” she said, moving nearer to the 
mantel. 

“It habs dat appearment,” he responded, as he began ex- 
amining the lost tools. 

“I don’t understan’ all dis heer, Ben ; de jail-house is way 
down to Clayton, an’ de wagon ain’t druv us no twenty 
mile.” 

“Hit’s mighty eurus, Judy — dat’s a faek. I neber see dis 
house afore, but dar’s Seez at de door, an’ dese am my tools, 
an’ dis am dat gen’leman’s boot what ’lowed we had to go 
to jar an’ what wrote dat letter to our boys.” 

“I neber ’spected ter see our boys, but here dey is.” 

At this announcement Uncle Ben turned and saw the pic- 
tures on the mantel. As he shuffled toward them, we en- 
tered from the other room. At the sight and sound of our 
entrance the old couple stood mute from astonishment for a 
moment, until Uncle Ben thought of the boot, when he made 
haste to restore it to its owner. 

“So you have decided to give it up, have you?” George 
asked, in a surly way, “ and you pretended those pictures 
were stolen,” he added, pointing to the mantel. 

While George was thus twitting the old man, Mrs. Swan- 
son had approached and was whispering to Aunt Judy. 

“ Massa, as de Lord sees me, I ain’t see none er dese 
things sens Thursday night till jes’ now, an’ I don’t know 
how dey comes ter be here no more den I knows whar I iz.” 

At this juncture of affairs Aunt Judy demonstrated the 
possession of pretty full use of lungs and limbs for, bound- 
ing towards George with a loud cry of “ bress de Lord ! ” 
she pinioned him with her arms. 

“ Dar now ! ” exclaimed Uncle Ben, “ de ole ooman’s got 
de haystacks, sure nuff.” 

“I got no haystacks, Ben, but I got our boys,” the old 


3 ° 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


woman cried, as slie loosed lier hold on George and seized 
John instead. 

“And I am Will, Uncle Ben,” I said, grasping a hand of 
the old man. 

There never was seen such a look of astonishment as Uncle 
Ben’s for the space of several seconds, at the conclusion of 
which the old man himself was a victim of “haystacks” of 
laughter, noticing which, George started toward him, when 
he as suddenly underwent another transformation ; for, 
springing forward, he caught George by the left arm, while, 
with his right hand he began pounding him most relig- 
iously. 

“You owdashus rascal! ” he exclaimed, as he planted a 
well-directed fist on a shoulder. “ You’ve been up to more 
debilment, is you ? ” (Whack! whack!) “Tormentin yer 
Uncle Ben agin, is you ? ha, ha ! ” (Whack ! whack ! ) “ Steal- 
in’ from Uncle Ben and den puttin’ ’im in jail, eh? ha, ha!” 
(Whack ! ) “ Ha, ha ! ” (Whack ! whack ! ) 

“Take — him — off! ” called out George between his gasps 
of laughter, as he tried to dodge the blows. 

“Give it to him, Uncle Ben,” I responded, “he is the one 
who did it all.” 

“ I’m gwine to,” (whack ! w r liack ! ) “ ’Course he’s de one,” 
(Whack!) “Here’s one fur de letter you writ, (whack!) 
and one fur dat boot bisness (whack!) an’ three wuth five 
dollar a piece fur dem pictures. (Whack! whack! whack!) 
Now, sah, you take dat, ha, ha, ha!” and, completely ex- 
hausted from his unresisted efforts, he sank into a chair to 
resume laughing and rubbing his overflowing eyes with his 
left sleeve, while shaking John’s right hand. Such merri- 
ment amidst tears! Such a mingling of soft sobs with 
hearty laughter ! Judge Swanson had entered, and Mart’s 
face was grinning and wet with tears just within the door. 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


31 


Wrinkled and black old faces, faces of strong men, and faces 
of matrons and fair girls all tearfully evidencing that 

‘ ‘ One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” 
******* 

Judge Swanson related to Uncle Ben and Aunt Judy the 
provision “their boys” had made, providing them with 
comforts for life. Mrs. Swanson revealed to Aunt Judy the 
supplies for their use and the dresses for her wear, which 
Misses Daisy and Willie volunteered to cut and make for 
her. 

John made it a condition of the presentation of the suit 
of clothing to Uncle Ben that he should attend church serv- 
ices the following morning in his new attire. As we entered 
the door we saw Uncle Ben on a rear seat next the aisle. 
But Uncle Ben’s acme of astonishment was reached now 
when George, who had been invited by the pastor to do so, 
assumed the sacred desk, and a minute later began lining 
the opening hymn ; for Uncle Ben had not been informed of 
George’s profession. We who were anticipating it enjoyed 
the open-eyed wonder with which he greeted this remarkable 
phenomenon of the most unsaintly of his boys in a Metho- 
dist pulpit. The opening prayer impressed the hearers that 
a cordial understanding existed between the man praying 
and the Great Father prayed to ; so spirited, unconstrained 
and confiding the utterance of invocation, with fervent res- 
ponses in broken voice, at times, from the rear seat, next the 
aisle. 

And now the sermon : With no cant in tone of voice, nor 
expression of face, nor gesture ; in language simple but ex- 
pressive and beautiful the preacher paints the beatitudes of 
brotherly love and human compassion and gracious charity 
and trusting faith which make up the sum of Christian char- 
acter. On wings of imagination he transports the congre- 


3 2 


UNCLE BEN’S CABIN. 


gation to the celestial happiness awaiting the faithful to the 
end, the humble colored no less than the most highly favored 
of mankind. Ascending from height to height with his 
soaring eloquence, the wayward boy of so many years before 
and the mirthful tease of only the night before, have van- 
ished from Uncle Ben’s mind before the earnest apostle of 
practical yet adorning Christianity. The face of the district 
preacher, as he hung upon the magic tongue, and bent his 
gaze upon the glowing countenance of the young minister, 
realized that one of his cloth might indulge in innocent 
amusement out of the pulpit and yet be possessed of genuine 
Christianity, and endowed with the power of conviction. 

“I always said so,” soliloquized Uncle Ben as he walked 
from the church, but loud enough to be overheard. “ I always 
said so — dat my boys wuzn’t bad — jes mischevus like, was 
all ; but shorely dat George was baptized wid hot water.” 

* * * * * * * 

Our stay of a fortnight longer witnessed frequent visits to 
Uncle Ben and Aunt Judy, and many incidents of our child- 
hood came under entertaining review. We parted from 
them with heartfelt emotion, and with an understanding that 
a bureau of correspondence should be maintained. This 
bureau is now in active operation, Willie Swanson represent- 
ing one end of it and I the other. John’s business engage- 
ments will probably prevent him from repeating his visit, 
but George has promised to accompany and be present with 
me on a certain occasion, the date of which Willie is to name 
in her next letter ; anxiously awaiting which I invite the 
reader to join me in singing Uncle Ben’s refrain : 

“ Nobody knows de trubbul I see ; 

Nobody knows but de Lord an’ me.’ 



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will be impaired. 

^•WARNER'S SAFE YEAST^ 

is designed to do a way,’ so far as possible, with 
the use of injurious yeasts, which makes the staff 
of life a detriment instead of a blessing. Ten 
Cakes in a box, price 10 cents. If your grocer 
does not keep it, send for it by mail to 

WARNER’S SAFE YEAST CO., Rochester, N.Y. 











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